


Survival

by Heisey



Category: Daredevil (TV), Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Building Collapse, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Karen Page Investigates, Medical Miracles, Medical Procedures, Midland Circle, References to Life-threatening injuries, References to major stroke, References to terminal cancer, Season/Series 03, Secret Identity, The Hand, missing person, references to 9/11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27051838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heisey/pseuds/Heisey
Summary: This is a story that might have happened while the first few episodes of Daredevil season 3 were taking place, during the time that Matt Murdock is missing. In the weeks following the collapse of Midland Circle, residents of Hell’s Kitchen are surviving terminal illnesses and injuries that should have been fatal. When Karen Page learns of these cases, she decides to investigate, hoping to find out what really happened that night – and the fate of Matt Murdock.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson & Karen Page, Matt Murdock/Karen Page
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Do You Believe in Miracles?

**Author's Note:**

> A note on the timeline: as I imagine it, this story is taking place alongside the events at the beginning of season 3, mostly during the first episode. This story doesn't change anything we saw happening on the screen during this time. It's simply my idea of what Karen might have been doing while Matt was recovering in the basement of the Clinton Church.

Twenty-year-old Zoe Milner texted her boyfriend Josh as she walked along West 44th Street in Hell’s Kitchen. On the opposite side of the street was the fenced-off area where the building known as Midland Circle had stood until its collapse several weeks before. She had heard of the conspiracy theories swirling around the event, but she wasn’t particularly interested in that kind of thing. She wrinkled her nose at the odors emanating from the site: ash, dust, and something else, something she couldn’t identify. She took a deep breath through her mouth. 

As she was reading Josh’s reply to her text, she reached the end of the block and stepped off the curb, into the path of an oncoming car. There was nothing the driver could do. The vehicle hit her with a sickening thud, throwing her onto the hood. She slipped off and fell to the pavement under the car’s front wheels, which rolled over her before the horrified driver could stop. He called 911, then got out of the car. When he saw Zoe’s crumpled, apparently lifeless form on the street in front of him, his heart sank.

When the EMTs arrived, they looked at Zoe, then at each other, and shook their heads sadly. Then one of them said, “She’s breathing!”

They scooped her off the pavement and onto a board to begin the measures that might at least keep her alive until they arrived at the Metro-General ER. Then they lifted her onto a gurney and into their ambulance. They sped away, their lights flashing and siren blaring.

When they arrived at the hospital, the emergency physician took one look at her and shook his head, but directed them into the trauma room anyway. It wasn’t long before she was rolled out of the room, on her way to surgery. Five days later, she walked out of the hospital, fully recovered from her injuries. 

  
Ten days before Zoe’s accident, 62-year-old Leon Johnson checked himself out of Metro-General. He was going home to die. The cancer that first appeared in his prostate had spread throughout his body, and the oncologist had confirmed what he already knew: there was no further treatment. He took in the news with his usual stoicism while his wife Roberta fought back tears. That afternoon, a nurse pushed his wheelchair to his brother’s waiting car, and she and his wife helped him into the back seat. It was only a short drive to their apartment on West 43rd Street between 10th and 11th Avenues. He still had enough strength, if only barely, to climb the two flights of stairs to their apartment.

When Leon was settled in the hospital bed that had been brought in for him, he asked Roberta to open the windows. She protested it would be too noisy and dusty, so close to the excavation work going on at Midland Circle. He waved off her objections, saying he wanted to feel the life of the city around him, while he still could. Blinking back her tears, she did as he asked.

Six days later, a baffled hospice nurse called Leon’s oncologist. “There’s something going on with Mr. Johnson,” she reported, “something I can’t explain.”

“What do you mean?” the physician demanded impatiently.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” she began hesitantly, “but he seems to be getting better.”

“Better? How?”

“His appetite is better. Mrs. Johnson says he’s been eating full meals, even asking for seconds. He seems to be regaining his strength. He’s been out of bed when I’ve arrived every day this week. And he’s refused his pain meds the past two days. He says he’s not in pain.”

“Impossible,” the oncologist scoffed.

“That’s what he says,” the nurse insisted. “And there’s one other thing. His breath sounds are better. His lungs are almost clear.”

The physician didn’t answer her for a minute. When he did, he said only, “All right. Continue to monitor him closely, and let me know if there is any change.”

A week passed. The hospice nurse monitored Leon closely, as instructed, and made detailed notes of her observations. On the seventh day, he was out of bed and dressed when she arrived, and he informed her he was just leaving with Roberta to have coffee at a nearby Starbuck’s. After they left her standing speechless in their living room, she called the oncologist to report. When he called her back, he questioned her skeptically, but she stuck to her guns. Finally, he sighed and said, “Have Mr. Johnson call me when he returns.” When Leon confirmed everything the hospice nurse had been telling him, the oncologist ordered a full-body scan. It was performed two days later and revealed he was cancer-free.

  
On the day Zoe left the hospital, 47-year-old Robert Fitzgerald was rushed to Metro-General after suffering a major stroke at his home, an apartment on 11th Avenue between 44th and 45th Streets. His doctors told the shocked family members gathered at his bedside that it was not a survivable event. Devastated, his wife of 23 years, Vivian, made the decision to discontinue life support after his brother and sister-in-law arrived from Philadelphia and had a chance to say good-bye. Several hours later, the family’s good-byes had all been said, and doctors removed Robert’s breathing tube. He continued to breathe on his own. Hours passed. Vivian kept a grim vigil at Robert’s bedside, waiting for and dreading the inevitable moment when he stopped breathing. It never came. Suddenly, in the early morning hours, his eyes flew open. “Viv,” he croaked.

“Oh, thank God,” Vivian exclaimed before dissolving in tears. Robert’s brother heard her and rushed into the room, then rang for the nurse. Four days later, Robert left the hospital, showing no signs of ever having suffered a stroke.

  
In her office at the _New York Bulletin_ , Karen Page hung up the phone and frowned. Her caller, a woman named Elise Burke, claimed to be the older sister of a young woman, Zoe Milner, who had miraculously recovered from injuries her physicians said were not survivable. Karen was skeptical. Besides, “human interest” stories weren’t really her beat. A month after the collapse of Midland Circle, she was focused on finding out what had happened that night – and learning the fate of Matt Murdock. Her friend had been there, underneath the building, when it came down. Alone among those who had gone there to rescue Danny Rand, he had not returned. No one had seen or heard from him since then. 

But something the woman said at the end of the call piqued her interest: her sister was not the only such case. At church this past Sunday, the priest, Father Lantom, mentioned that several cases like Zoe’s had occurred recently in Hell’s Kitchen. The scene of Zoe’s accident was a block from Midland Circle. Could there be a connection? If there was, Karen would find it. And in the process, she might also discover what was going on below Midland Circle, and maybe, just maybe, what happened to Matt.

  
Karen knocked on the rectory door. A man’s voice answered, “It’s open, come in.” She recognized that voice, from Ben’s and Grotto’s funerals: Matt’s priest, Father Lantom.

She entered the building and saw the priest sitting behind a desk in an office just to the left of the front door. He stood to greet her. “Ms. Page, if I recall correctly.”

“You do,” she replied, shaking his hand.

“Please, sit,” Father Lantom said, waving a hand at the chairs across the desk from him. “What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know if you knew this,” she began, “but I’m no longer working with Foggy and . . . and Matt.” She swallowed. “I’m a reporter now, at the _Bulletin_.”

Father Lantom nodded. “Yes, I know. Who am I speaking to, the reporter or their friend?”

“The reporter,” Karen replied firmly.

“Then you probably know I may be limited in what I can say about . . . whatever it is that brings you here.”

“I understand.”

Father Lantom shifted in his chair. “So what do you want to ask me?”

“I received a phone call yesterday from a woman named Elise Burke, who told me about her younger sister, Zoe Milner.” Father Lantom didn’t say anything, but the look on his face betrayed him: he recognized the names. “She said her sister suffered life-threatening – actually, the phrase she used was ‘not survivable’ – injuries in an accident recently, and survived. Not only survived, she recovered within a few days. Zoe’s doctors were unable to explain how she survived and recovered so quickly. Elise called it a ‘miracle.’ And she said there were other cases, and you mentioned them in your sermon last Sunday.”

Father Lantom nodded. “Yes, I did. There are two other cases that I know of.” He paused, steepling his hands in front of his face, then continued, “I am not one to call unexplained events ‘miracles’ lightly. Usually, I find, there is a rational explanation if you look for it hard enough. These cases, however . . . .” His voice trailed off, but Karen thought she knew what he was going to say.

“What can you tell me about them?”

“Nothing more.” Karen’s face fell. He must have seen the expression on her face, because he added, “But I will do this. I will pass on your name and contact information to the people involved. If they want to speak with you, they can contact you directly. That’s all I can do.”

“I understand.” Karen rose to her feet, preparing to leave. “Thank you for speaking with me.”

Father Lantom’s voice stopped her. “Before you go, may I speak to you, not as the reporter but as Matthew’s friend?”

“Um, all right,” Karen said guardedly. But she resumed her seat.

“This is a difficult time for all of us who knew him. How are you doing?”

“OK, I guess.”

“You don’t sound very sure about that. It’s OK not to be OK, you know, at a time like this.”

“It’s hard,” she admitted. “We were, um, estranged, I guess you’d say, for a while. We’d just started talking to each other again. And then he was . . . gone.”

Father Lantom nodded knowingly. Of course he would know about their estrangement. If Matt had confided in anyone, it would have been his priest. “Unfinished business,” he commented.

“Yes,” Karen agreed. “But I’m not giving up hope. Not yet. Not until they find his body.”

“You know that might not happen.”

“I do. But I also think I would know if he were dead. I just have a . . . a feeling that he’s not.” Somehow, in spite of everything that had happened, Karen still felt a connection to Matt. As long as that connection persisted, she would hold on to hope. “And they’re still digging. So I haven’t given up.”

“I understand,” Father Lantom told her. “And it’s good to hold on to hope, as long as it’s reasonable to do so. But keep in mind that sometimes the thing you’re hoping for may happen, but not in the way you’re hoping for.”

Karen gave the priest a questioning look, but he didn’t explain. Instead, he continued, “Whatever has happened with Matthew, I’m certain it’s part of God’s plan for him.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“I do. But I’m not entirely certain that Matthew believes, uh, believed it, either.”

Her heart stopped for an instant when the word registered: “believes.” Present tense. She shot a sharp glance at the priest, but his expression was unreadable. Was it simply the usual slip of the tongue, referring to the recently-deceased in the present tense? Or did Father Lantom know something he wasn’t telling her? There was no point in asking him. If it was the latter, he wouldn’t tell her, anyway. After decades as a priest, keeping people’s secrets would be baked-in. 

“One other thing,” Father Lantom said. “I have the impression you are someone to whom facts matter, a truth-seeker, you might say. Like Mr. Urich.” Karen nodded. “I’m thinking it would help you get through this if you knew what happened that night, below Midland Circle. Have you spoken to Matthew’s comrades, the people who were there?”

“A little.”

“But you don’t know everything,” the priest prompted.

“No, I don’t,” she agreed. “Maybe I will talk to them again. If they’ll talk to me.”

“I expect they will.”

She rose from her chair again, thanked Father Lantom, and took her leave. This time, he let her go.

On her way back to the _Bulletin_ , she replayed the conversation in her head. In spite of the priest’s unexpected skepticism about “miracles,” he seemed to think something extraordinary was happening in Hell’s Kitchen. She thought so, too. It was just a matter of finding out exactly what that was. Then there was the other part of the conversation, the part about Matt. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that Father Lantom knew something. But if Matt was alive, surely he would have contacted her or Foggy. Keeping them in the dark like this would be . . . cruel. Of course Matt could have sworn Father Lantom to secrecy. She wouldn’t put it past him to do just that, for some off-the-wall reason that made sense only to him. She gave an internal shrug. Whatever was going on with Matt, Father Lantom was right about one thing: she needed to know more about the night Midland Circle collapsed into a heap of rubble, ash, and dust. And she had an idea where to start looking. When she got back to the office, she picked up the phone and called Trish Walker.

  
That evening, Karen was sitting at a corner table at a bar in Chelsea, waiting for Trish. She’d asked Trish to pick the place. She didn’t want to meet at Josie’s. Too many memories. And maybe memories were all there would ever be. “Don’t go there, Page,” she told herself, “not until there’s proof.” She looked up and saw Trish entering the bar, turning her head as if looking for someone. Karen stood up and waved. Trish spotted her and crossed the room to join her. 

When they both had drinks on the table in front of them, Trish asked, “So what’s this about? A story you’re working on?”

“No story,” Karen replied. “It’s personal. You know I was – I _am_ – Matt Murdock’s friend – ”

Trish interrupted her. “Or girlfriend?”

“Friend,” Karen repeated firmly. “We went out on one date before everything kind of . . . fell apart.” Trish didn’t ask her to explain, for which she was grateful. After a moment, she continued, “I feel like there are things I don’t know, things I need to know, about that night, at Midland Circle. I was hoping Jessica might have told you.”

Trish looked across the table at her. She had to turn away from the look of sympathy – or was it pity? – on the other woman’s face. “I understand,” Trish said. “You’re looking for closure.”

“Not closure, exactly,” Karen said. “I’m not sure there really is such a thing. I just know I need to know what happened.”

Trish sighed. “I’m not the person you need to talk to. Jessica and I talked some, afterward, but it was mostly about Murdock. She liked him, you know. She doesn’t like many people, but she liked him, even if she thought the devil suit – ” Trish gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Shit,” she said, “please tell me you know.”

“I know,” Karen assured her. “Jessica told you?”

Trish lowered her voice and continued. “No, I figured it out from things Jess said. You know, it all just added up.”

“Damn,” Karen swore. If Trish put two and two together, so could other people.

“But I don’t think anyone else would figure it out,” Trish added hastily, seeming to pick up on what Karen was thinking. “The things Jess told me, she wouldn’t tell anyone else. And without them, there’s no reason to connect Matt Murdock and Daredevil. I mean, it’s not like they disappeared at the same time. Daredevil was basically MIA for months before Midland Circle.”

Karen considered this for a moment. She had to admit it made sense. “You’re probably right. So, you were saying?”

“Jess thought the devil suit was kind of ridiculous, but like I said, I think she liked Matt. She doesn’t work with other people, not as a rule, but she could work with him. Did you know they were the ones who figured out something was going on below Midland Circle?”

Karen shook her head. “No.”

“Well, it was them. Matt found the blueprints, hidden in the piano at the architect’s house.”

Karen had to smile in spite of herself. 

“It really was kind of amazing, what he could do,” Trish observed.

Karen nodded, trying not to notice the past tense. “So what was going on?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Jess wouldn’t say. Whenever the conversation got close to that, or what happened that night, she refused to talk about it. Changed the subject or just clammed up.”

“Do you think she’d talk to me?”

Trish thought for a moment. “Maybe,” she replied, “if you catch her at the right time.”

“When would that be?” 

Trish laughed mirthlessly. “Never, probably.” She picked up her glass and turned it in her hand, then set it down without drinking.“Seriously, she’s having a hard time dealing with what happened. She won’t admit it, of course, but I think it would help her to talk to someone about it. Might as well be you.”

Their conversation drifted to other subjects after that, to Trish’s plans for a more hard-hitting radio show and the stories Karen had covered at the _Bulletin_. When they finished their drinks, Karen thanked Trish for meeting her and headed home. Trish watched her leave, then took out her phone and called Jessica.

  
The next morning, Karen’s heels clicked on the tile floor of an apartment building hallway as she walked to the door at the end with “Alias Investigations” stenciled in gold on the ribbed glass. She knocked, but there was no answer. After waiting a minute, she knocked again and called out, “Jessica! It’s Karen Page.”

She heard something that sounded like, “Oh, shit,” followed by footsteps. Jessica opened the door. “Come in,” she said grudgingly. She stepped back to let Karen in, then returned to her place behind the desk. Karen took a seat in a chair across from her.

“Trish called you?” Karen asked.

Jessica nodded. “Yeah.”

“She told you what I wanted to see you about?”

“More or less.”

Karen set her handbag on the floor next to her and leaned forward, resting her forearms on her thighs. “Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve realized I don’t know what happened that night, at Midland Circle. I know what you guys told me – you, Luke, and Danny – when we talked at the precinct. But that’s not the whole story, is it?”

Jessica gave Karen a long, hard look, as if she was deciding how much of the story she could tell and how much the other woman could stand to hear. “You sure you want to know?”

“Positive,” Karen replied firmly.

“You know about the Hand, right?” Jessica asked. 

Karen nodded. 

“They were doing something down there, below Midland Circle, that was a threat to the city.”

“And you said Matt stayed behind to save the city.”

“We did. Officially, Murdock wasn’t there, but that’s what we agreed to tell you and Nelson.”

“That wasn’t the real reason, though, was it?”

Jessica gave Karen another appraising look, then said, “No, it wasn’t. That chick with the swords, Elektra, she was there, calling the shots for the Hand.”

Karen gasped when she heard the name.

“You know who that is, right?” Jessica asked.

Yes, Karen knew. Foggy had filled her in, after the Castle trial imploded. About Matt’s hot-and-heavy fling with his college girlfriend, who suddenly disappeared from campus one day, never to return. About how she showed up ten years later, during the middle of the trial, and undermined their defense. She was the woman Karen saw in Matt’s bed on that awful day when she came to tell Matt that Foggy needed his help. She now understood that the situation wasn’t what she thought it was at the time – after all, that old man was there, too. But it didn’t matter. Whatever Matt was doing with Elektra, it was more important than his friendship with her and Foggy. Not to mention his professional commitments. After that, she knew where she stood with him. At least there was that.

“But Foggy said she died,” Karen said.

“According to Murdock, she did, but the Hand did something to bring her back,” Jessica explained. “Wiped her memories, turned her into a killing machine. But it didn’t take, not completely. Her memories came back – some of them, anyway – and she killed the leader of the Hand and took over.”

“Jesus,” Karen breathed.

“So we fought her off, her and her ninjas, and got Danny and were on our way out of there, but Murdock wouldn’t leave. Said he knew he could get through to her, or some such bullshit. It wasn’t about saving the city, it was about saving Elektra.”

“Typical,” Karen muttered, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“We could’ve got him out, Luke and me. We could’ve dragged him onto that elevator.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Karen said. “Not if he was determined to stay behind.”

“We should’ve tried, anyway,” Jessica said. She wouldn’t meet Karen’s eyes, but Karen heard the guilt in her voice.

“This is not on you,” Karen told her. “You couldn’t have stopped him. Not even you and Luke. He’d have found a way. Believe me. I know. So don’t beat yourself up over this.”

“If you say so,” Jessica said doubtfully.

“I do,” Karen assured her. She leaned back in her chair and considered what Jessica had told her. It all made sense, in a twisted kind of way. After Matt told her his secret, they’d taken some tentative steps toward rebuilding their friendship, but Matt was still lying to her, even then. He hadn’t given up Daredevil. He couldn’t. She was right when she compared it to an addiction. Now being Daredevil might have cost him his life. And for what? Elektra? “Was she worth it, Matt?” she silently asked the ghost in her head. There was no answer. Anger welled up inside her. These days, it was always just below the surface. She didn’t try to tamp it down. “Damn you, Matt Murdock,” she whispered. “I have to go,” she said as she grabbed her handbag and fled, leaving Jessica speechless behind her desk.

By the time her breathing and heart rate had slowed to something resembling normal, Karen was several blocks away. Then her anger faded, and sadness took its place. She was still angry with Matt, angry that he’d thrown his life away so carelessly. But it saddened her deeply to think how little he valued his life, how little he valued himself. That sadness was the flip side of her anger. She took a deep breath and blinked back tears. In the weeks since Midland Circle, she’d gotten used to these swings between anger and sadness. It didn’t make it any easier. She took a minute to compose herself, then headed to her office at the _Bulletin_. 

By the time she got there, she was kicking herself for her abrupt departure from Jessica’s office. She’d left before she found out what the Hand was doing under Midland Circle. She couldn’t go back to Jessica. She’d have to ask one of the others who were there. Luke Cage, maybe. She propped her elbows on the desk in front of her and rested her forehead on her hands, trying to think of the best way to approach him. Then something occurred to her, something Jessica said. What was it? Something about the Hand bringing Elektra back after she died. Was that connected to what the Hand was doing at Midland Circle? More to the point, was it connected to the “miracles” happening in Hell’s Kitchen?


	2. Magical Thinking

After her visit to Jessica, Karen spent the day at her desk, tracking down statistics on respiratory illnesses in the immediate vicinity of Midland Circle. The subject had taken on a new importance in light of what she’d learned in the last few days, but she couldn’t concentrate. Her thoughts kept drifting back to her conversation with Father Lantom. The priest was right: she wasn’t OK. She needed to grieve, but she couldn’t, not really, not when she still clung to hope that Matt was alive. And even if she could grieve, her grief would have to stay hidden. Thanks to the cover-up engineered by Foggy, the events at Midland Circle never happened, officially. Matt was never there. None of them were. She understood the need to protect Matt’s identity; it was for her sake, and Foggy’s, as much as it was for Matt’s. But it was hard, keeping up the pretense that she was fine when she wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Her solution was to immerse herself in her work. Every minute she spent chasing down a lead or a witness, or putting together the facts she’d uncovered, was a minute she wasn’t thinking about what happened to Matt. It didn’t really solve the problem, only postponed the inevitable. But for now, it was what she needed to do to survive.

  
In the middle of the afternoon, her phone rang.

“Karen Page,” she answered.

“Ms. Page?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Yes.”

The woman continued, “My name is Roberta Johnson. Father Lantom, at the Clinton Church, suggested I call you. It’s about my husband, Leon.”

“OK,” Karen replied, trying not to sound too eager.

“Leon has – had – cancer, prostate cancer. When it came back after his surgery, the doctors said it had spread. They tried radiation and hormone therapy, but they didn’t help. A few weeks ago, they told us there was nothing more they could do. So I took him home. We thought he was coming home to die. But he started getting better. The doctors didn’t believe it, at first, but eventually they did a scan. The cancer was gone – completely.”

Karen’s heart started beating faster, the way it always did when she felt a story coming together. “What did the doctors say?”

“They couldn’t explain it,” Mrs. Johnson replied. “They just shook their heads and said things like this happen sometimes. I know better. It was a miracle.”

Karen didn’t respond. Instead, she asked, “You mentioned that you took him home. Where is that, if I may ask?”

“West 43rd Street between 10th and 11th.”

A short block from Midland Circle. Karen’s heart rate ticked up a little bit more.

“And there’s something else,” Mrs. Johnson continued. “When I brought him home, Leon asked me to open the windows in our apartment. He said he wanted to hear the sounds of the city while . . . .” Her voice broke. When she recovered, she went on, “while he still could. I didn’t want to, because of all the dust, you know, from that building that fell down, but he insisted. So I did as he asked.”

“Must have been pretty dusty,” Karen observed.

“Oh, it was,” Mrs. Johnson agreed. “But I didn’t mind, not really. That’s what he wanted.”

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” Karen asked.

“I don’t think so.” Mrs. Johnson paused for a moment. “No, that’s it. Will there be a story about Leon in the _Bulletin_?”

“Maybe. I hope so,” Karen replied, “but I’m still working on it.” She thanked Mrs. Johnson and ended the call, then leaned back in her chair, thinking about what the woman had told her. Now she knew of two so-called “miracles,” both of them in the shadow of Midland Circle, or what used to be its shadow. There had to be a connection between them, and maybe a connection to whatever the Hand was doing there. Time to talk to Luke Cage.

  
The next morning, Karen knocked on the door of the Harlem apartment occupied by Luke Cage and Claire Temple. Karen had cajoled Foggy into giving up Luke’s address, and the “Harlem’s Hero” app told her Luke was at home. Claire opened the door and stepped back to admit Karen.

“Hey, Karen,” she said with a smile.

“Hey. I was hoping to speak with Luke. Is he here?”

“Yes. Come on in,” Claire said, gesturing toward the interior of the apartment. Karen followed Claire into the living-dining room, where Luke was sitting at the table. 

Luke stood up when he saw Karen. “Hey, Karen,” he said, “what brings you here?”

“Looking for answers,” Karen replied. Luke looked at her warily. She hastily added, “For myself, not the _Bulletin_.”

Luke seemed to relax a bit and resumed his seat. “OK,” he said. “Please, sit. Coffee?”  
  
Karen took a seat across the table from him. “No, thanks.”

Claire sat down next to Luke. “We’re so sorry . . . about Matt,” she said. Luke nodded his agreement. “Foggy said you two were . . . close.”

“We were,” Karen agreed. “At one time. And while I appreciate your sympathy, I’m not convinced he’s dead.”

Claire and Luke exchanged surprised looks. Then Claire turned to Karen. “I was there,” she said gently. “We both were. We saw the building fall. I don’t see how anyone could’ve survived that.” She caught the look on Karen’s face and guessed what she was going to say. “Not even Matt,” she added.

Karen looked away to avoid seeing the pity on Claire’s face. “You’re probably right,” she admitted, “but I need proof.”

“You may not get it,” Luke pointed out. “Think of all the victims of 9/11 who were never found.”

“I know. And if that happens, I’ll deal with it. But I didn’t come here to talk about Matt.”

“What, then?” Luke asked.

“The Hand, and what they were doing under Midland Circle.”

Luke frowned. “I don’t know the whole story on that, just what Danny told me.”

“I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

Luke leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head and thought for a minute. Then he lowered his hands, leaned forward, and said, “They took Danny because they needed him – his fist, that is – to open something below Midland Circle. By the time Jess, Matt, and I got down there, it was already open. Whatever it was. There were parts of skeletons, huge bones, like dinosaur bones, scattered around and embedded in the rock.”

“Dinosaur bones, under New York City?” Karen asked incredulously.

“They weren’t dinosaur bones.”

“Then what were they?”

“Dragon bones,” Luke told her, keeping a straight face. Karen stared at him. “The Hand’s people were cutting them up, preparing to take the pieces out of there, I guess. We interrupted them.”

“What were they going to do with them?” Karen asked.

“No idea.” Luke looked a question at Claire, who shook her head.

“You know about Elektra?” Karen asked.

Luke looked surprised at the change of subject. Then he nodded. “Yes. Murdock said she died, and the Hand somehow brought her back.”

“Did he say how?”

Luke shook his head. “No. I don’t think he knew.”

“Could it have something to do with the dragon bones?”

Luke considered this for a moment, then shrugged, holding his hands out in front of him. “Possibly. Why, do you think it does?”

“Maybe. Have you heard about the so-called ‘miracles’ – ” Karen made air quotes. “ – happening in Hell’s Kitchen?”

Luke looked puzzled, so Claire answered for him. “I’ve heard rumors from some of my former co-workers at Metro-General,” she said. “Is there anything to them?”

“Yes,” Karen said. “There are at least two cases. I’ve talked to the sister of one patient and the wife of another. There isn’t any medical explanation for what happened. But both seem to be connected to Midland Circle.”

“Connected?” Claire asked. “Connected how?”

“By location,” Karen explained. “One patient was hit by a car near Midland Circle, the other lives a block away. There was a lot of . . . stuff in the air after the building came down. Still is, for that matter. What if some of that dust is from the dragon bones, or whatever they are?”

“What if it is?” Luke asked skeptically.

“It’s just a theory, but what if the Hand was taking out the dragon bones because they contain whatever it is that they used to bring Elektra back?”

“And the two patients breathed some of it in, and it healed them, is that the idea?” Claire asked.

“Exactly.”

“I don’t know,” Luke said, “it sounds pretty far-fetched to me.”

“More far-fetched than Elektra coming back from the dead, or what happened to you?” Claire asked.

“Point taken,” Luke conceded, then looked to Karen. “But how do you prove it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I can’t. I need to get my hands on some of that dust.”

“You should talk to Danny, too,” Luke suggested.

“I will.” Karen stood up. “I should be going. Thanks for speaking with me.”

Claire got to her feet. “I’ll walk you out,” she said. When the two women reached the entry hall, Claire reached out and gave Karen a quick hug. “I hope you’re right,” she said, “about Matt, I mean.”

“Me too.” Karen turned and walked out the door.

  
Shortly after midnight, Karen left her apartment and headed toward West 44th Street. Dressed all in black, with a black ski hat covering her hair, she walked along the sidewalk, trying not to be noticed by the people who were still on the streets at that hour. Her keys, pepper spray, and phone were in one pocket of her jacket. In another were a flashlight, a teaspoon, and several plastic bags. Her gun was back at her apartment. She hoped to avoid an encounter with the police, but if one occurred, she wanted to survive it. As she made her way through Hell’s Kitchen, she felt exposed, as if people were watching her. She understood, now, why Daredevil preferred to travel on the rooftops. It would be a final, bitter irony if Matt had perished far underground, below Midland Circle, after spending so much of his life on the heights. She shook her head to banish the thought.

After a ten-minute walk, she reached the perimeter around the Midland Circle excavation site, marked by a temporary fence. Now, more than a month since the building collapsed, the fenced-off area was not much larger than the structure’s footprint. Many of the nearby residents had been allowed to return, and some businesses had re-opened. The fence itself didn’t look like a serious attempt to secure the site; it was more of a visual barrier than a physical one. And there were a couple of vulnerable areas, where she thought she might be able to get inside. She had spotted them that afternoon, when she did a reconnaissance.

She looked around, decided no one was watching, and slipped into the space between the work site and the building next door, which was dark and empty. She crept along the fence line until she reached the place where two sections of fencing met. She pushed on one of them. It made a scraping sound. She froze, listening intently. When she was satisfied no one had heard, she pushed on the fence again, opening a gap that was wide enough for her to squeeze through. 

Once inside the fence, she scooped up a sample of dust near the perimeter and placed it in the plastic bag marked with the number 1. Then she worked her way to the center of the site, relying mostly on the ambient light from the street and nearby buildings to find a safe path. The security lights were few and widely spaced, more evidence that the company working at the site wasn’t spending its money on security. She stopped twice to collect additional samples of the dust. As she was sealing the baggie holding the third sample, she tripped and bumped into a section of a broken beam that was sticking up out of the debris. It fell to the ground, landing with a metallic clank. The debris shifted under her feet. She gasped and almost went down. When she recovered her balance, she realized someone was coming. No, it was two someones. She listened more intently. One person and – a dog? Maybe they were more serious about security than she’d thought. 

Moving as quietly as she could, she ducked under a piece of a concrete slab that was resting at a 45-degree angle, leaving a space beneath it. When she was satisfied she was as well-hidden as she could be, she pulled out her flashlight. She couldn’t risk turning it on, but it might be useful as a weapon. The man and the dog were moving in her direction and coming closer. As she listened to their approach, she had an inkling of the advantage Matt’s senses gave him, an advantage she could definitely use right about now. She’d have to tell Matt about it. Then she remembered. She might never have the chance. “Not now, Page,” she told herself. The man and dog were still coming toward her. They were close enough for her to hear the dog’s panting and the scraping of its claws on the debris. There was no way she could escape discovery. Suddenly, she heard shouts, coming from the far side of the site. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. The man said something to the dog, and they took off, heading away from her.

She waited until she was sure they weren’t coming back, then emerged from her hiding place. She scooped up one last sample of the dust, then retraced her steps to the fence. After she squeezed through the gap, she sprinted back to the sidewalk, slowing only when she neared the sidewalk. Brushing the dirt from her clothes, she stepped out of the passage between the buildings, then leaned against the front of the building next door. When she caught her breath and her heart stopped racing, she headed home.

The next morning, she dropped the samples off at a lab for analysis. Foggy had given her the name – it was the lab his law firm used – despite her refusal to tell him what she needed a lab for. She blanched when they quoted her the price, but pulled out her credit card anyway and told them to go ahead. The _Bulletin_ would reimburse her. All she had to do was convince Mitchell Ellison, her editor, to run the story.

Back at her office, she couldn’t stop yawning, even after multiple cups of coffee. Apparently her nighttime outing was taking its toll. She wondered how Matt did it, night after night. That was something else she’d have to talk to him about, if – no, not if – _when_ he came back.

The ringing of her phone snapped her out of her reverie. Zoe Milner’s sister was calling to let her know Zoe had given her surgeon permission to speak with her, and he had agreed. Karen thanked the woman and called the number she had given her. To Karen’s surprise, the surgeon himself answered the phone. In her experience, doctors were usually insulated by layers of employees who seemed to think their sole purpose in life was to prevent her from speaking to “doctor.” Apparently, Dr. Ricardo Brooks wasn’t one of them.

After identifying herself as a reporter, Karen said, “I understand your patient, Zoe Milner, has authorized you to speak with me.”

“Yes, she has,” Dr. Brooks acknowledged. “What do you want to know?”

Karen decided on an open-ended question. “Was there anything . . . unusual about Zoe’s case?”

“You could say that.”

“What was unusual about her case?”

“When I was called to the Emergency Department to assess Ms. Milner, I saw a young woman with severe, and extensive, injuries. I did not expect her to survive them.” Dr. Brooks fell silent, apparently remembering the moment.

“But – ” Karen prompted.

“But someone so young, who should have so many years left to her, well, you do everything you can. So I took her to the operating room. And when I was able to visualize her injuries, it was . . . extraordinary.”

“Extraordinary? In what way?” Karen asked.

“They were not as severe and extensive as I had expected. But it wasn’t only that. It appeared to me that healing was already taking place. I had never seen anything like it.”

“How do you explain it?”

“I can’t,” the surgeon replied. “No more than I can explain the speed of her recovery. You know she left the hospital after five days?”

“Yes.”

“She wasn’t simply well enough to go home. Her injuries were completely healed.”

“And there’s no medical explanation?”

“None that I know of,” Dr. Brooks said. “She is young and healthy, so you’d expect her to recover more quickly than an older patient, but that alone can’t account for the extreme speed of her recovery. I’ve been a trauma surgeon for more than twenty-five years, and I’ve seen my share of patients who defied the odds. But nothing like this.”

“Zoe’s sister thinks it was a miracle.” Karen commented.

“Magical thinking,” Dr. Brooks declared scornfully, “and intellectually lazy. We may not have found the reason for Ms. Milner’s survival and quick recovery, but I can assure you the reason is not supernatural. There is a medical explanation for what happened in this case. We just don’t know what it is yet.”

“One final question,” Karen said. “Were there any unusual or unknown substances found in Zoe’s blood?”

“No, but we weren’t looking for that kind of thing. The blood work I ordered was for clinical purposes, to obtain information to assist in her treatment. It wasn’t a forensic analysis.”

“Understood.” 

“Is there anything else?” Dr. Brooks asked.

“No. Thank you for speaking with me.” 

Karen ended the call and leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed. It wasn’t from fatigue, this time. She needed to think. Dr. Brooks had just confirmed Elise Burke’s story about her sister, improbable as it was. In the neighborhood around Midland Circle, people were surviving when they shouldn’t have. There was no medical explanation. But it wasn’t just a story. Not for Karen. If Zoe and the others had survived because of what the Hand was doing under Midland Circle, Matt could have survived, too.


	3. Dragon Dust

Two nights after her nocturnal visit to Midland Circle, Karen met Foggy for a drink at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Not Josie’s. Apparently Karen wasn’t the only one who thought there were too many memories there. With its exposed brick walls, carved and polished wood, and quiet ambience, the place was about as different from Josie’s as a bar could be. Karen understood why Foggy liked it.

Foggy was already there, sitting at one of the tables scattered about the small space. He stood up and waved when she walked in the door. She gave him a quick hug before sitting down across from him. 

“So – how are you?” they both said at the same time.

They laughed, then Foggy said, “You first.”

“OK, I guess. One day at a time, you know,” Karen said with a shrug. “You?”

“The same.” Foggy stood up. “What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Jameson’s, neat.”

“You got it,” Foggy said as he headed to the bar. When he returned with their drinks, he asked, “So what’ve you been up to?”

Karen took a sip of whiskey before she answered him. She had a pretty good idea how Foggy would react. “I’m working on something . . . have you heard about the ‘miracles’ – ” She made air quotes. “ – happening in Hell’s Kitchen?”

Foggy nodded. “Yeah,” he said cautiously, “one of the secretaries was talking about it the other day, said she heard about them in church. I didn’t pay much attention, to be honest.”

“I think there might be something to the story. I think it has to do with Midland Circle and what, uh, what happened . . . that night.”

“Seriously?”

“Just hear me out, OK?”

“OK,” Foggy agreed reluctantly.

Karen leaned forward and said eagerly, “Luke and Jessica and Danny, they didn’t tell us the whole story about what happened down there. I don’t have the full story yet, but I’ve talked to Jessica and Luke, and they filled in some of the gaps. You know Matt’s ex, from college, Elektra?”

Foggy nodded.

“She was there, with the Hand, fighting Matt and the others. I thought she was dead, but Luke said the Hand did something to bring her back.” She glanced across at Foggy. He didn’t seem surprised. “You knew?”

“Yes. Matt told me she was alive, that night, at the precinct.”

“I think what the Hand was doing down there is connected to what they did to bring her back.” Foggy raised his eyebrows but said nothing. “Luke said they were taking something out of there.”

“What kind of something?” Foggy asked.

Karen hesitated for a minute, taking a sip of her whiskey before answering him. “I know it sounds crazy, but . . . dragon bones.”

Foggy sighed. “Dragon bones. Of course. It’s not like our lives weren’t weird enough already.” He eyed her skeptically from across the table. “Do you believe this? Really?”

“Look, I don’t have all the pieces yet, but what I do know adds up. Remember the ‘miracles’ I mentioned?”

Foggy nodded.

“There was a young woman who was run over by a car on 10th Avenue, at 44th. I’ve talked to her sister and her surgeon. They both say her injuries were not survivable, but she walked out of the hospital five days later. I also spoke with the wife of a man with terminal prostate cancer. He went home to die, to his apartment on 43rd Street, between 10th and 11th. Ten days later, he was cancer free. And there’s one more case that I know of, but I haven’t been able to get anyone to talk to me about it, not yet.”

“And your point is?” Foggy asked. “I mean, we’ve all heard of ‘medical miracles’ that sometimes happen – people recovering who shouldn’t have, and no one can explain it.”

“I know, but this feels different. And remember the videos of the building coming down?” 

Foggy nodded.

“There was a huge cloud of dust and ash, all over the neighborhood. Maybe not like what we saw when the towers came down on 9/11, but big enough. And the whole area is still coated with it. They’re digging and stirring up the dust, every day.”

Foggy gave her another skeptical look. “So your theory is these two people breathed in the dust from dragon bones, and that’s why they survived?”

“Basically, yes. I don’t have proof yet, but I will. I sneaked into the site last night and collected some samples of the dust and took them to that lab you told me about.”

“You did what?” Foggy shook his head. “Jesus, Karen.” He picked up his glass and took a long drink. When he set it down, he continued, “That’s not gonna prove anything. I doubt the lab has a test for dragon dust.”

“Maybe not,” Karen conceded, “but if there are unknown or unidentifiable substances in the dust, that tells us something.”

“What it tells us,” Foggy said firmly, “is that there are unknown or unidentifiable substances in the dust. That’s all.” He gave her a penetrating look. “So what is this really about?”

She looked down at her drink and didn’t answer him.

“It’s about Matt, isn’t it? You can’t accept that he’s . . . gone, so you’ve come up with this cockamamie theory that he breathed in dragon dust and survived.” She still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Look. I want him to be alive, as much as you do, but it’s time, past time, to face the facts. Even if this dragon dust exists and does what you think it does, how’d he get out from under the building?”

Karen finally looked up. “I don’t know,” she admitted. Then she added, defiantly, “But he could have.”

Foggy sighed. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that he did get out of the building and is alive, somewhere. Why hasn’t he contacted us?”

“I don’t know that, either. Maybe he’s in bad shape and can’t contact us. And don’t forget, this is Matt we’re talking about. He could have some crazy reason for pushing us away, like he always does. You know that.”

“True.” Foggy started to say something else but didn’t. Karen guessed he’d seen the expression on her face. “What?” he asked.

“I swear to Christ, if Matt’s been alive this whole time and let us think he’s dead, I’m gonna . . . .” Karen began angrily.

“You’re gonna do what?” Foggy asked.

Karen shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.” She raised her glass and took a long drink. “That would be really shitty of him, though, letting us think he was dead.”

“Yeah. It would,” Foggy agreed with a nod. He didn’t say it out loud, but Karen knew he was thinking the same thing she was: it was exactly the kind of shitty thing Matt would do, for some totally fucked-up reason that made sense only to him.

“Damn it,” Karen muttered. 

On that note, the conversation stalled. Karen didn’t want to revisit all the shitty things Matt had done. Neither did Foggy, apparently. After a moment, he changed the subject. “So now what?” he asked.

“I need to talk to Danny Rand to get the final pieces of the puzzle – I hope,” Karen said. "But when I call Rand Enterprises or show up there, they know I’m a reporter, and I end up talking to the PR flacks. I haven’t been able to get past them.”

Foggy studied the liquid in his glass. Then he set it down without drinking and said, “I have an idea. Call Claire. She’s friends with Danny’s girlfriend, Colleen. You can get in touch with Danny through her.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.”

Neither of them had much to say after that. They finished their drinks in silence. When Foggy returned with a second round, their conversation moved on to other things. Foggy regaled her with stories of Marci and what it was like to work with Jessica Jones and represent Luke Cage. Karen told him about how she broke her latest exposé, a story about cronyism in the City’s Public Works Department that was likely to send at least one public “servant” to prison. 

While Foggy was telling her about his latest adventure with Luke – some kind of celebrity appearance that went sideways, big time – her eyes fell on the empty chair next to him. The empty chair, the empty place in their lives, where Matt should have been. She blinked back tears. She could imagine what it was costing Foggy to carry on, hiding his grief, all the while believing his best friend lay dead under the mountain of rubble that used to be Midland Circle. Because no one could ever know that Matt Murdock was there. She resisted the urge to hug him, to tell him she understood, but this wasn’t the time for that conversation. Not until there was proof, one way or the other. 

When they finished their drinks, Karen picked up her handbag and stood up. “I should get going,” she said.

As she pushed her chair under the table and turned toward the door, Foggy said, “Karen.” She stopped and turned back toward him. “I know you don’t want to hear this,” he continued, “but I know you. I know what you’re like when you’re chasing a story or a bad guy or the truth. But this Midland Circle thing – ” He shook his head sadly. “It’s not gonna end well. It’s just delaying the inevitable. Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to accept that Matt’s gone. And move forward.”

“And what?” Karen asked angrily. “We’re just supposed to forget him?”

 _“What?”_ Foggy exclaimed. “ _No. Never._ I just hate to see you clinging to false hope.”

“It’s not false hope,” Karen insisted. “You’ll see.” She turned back toward the door. “Say hi to Marci. And thanks for the drinks,” she said over her shoulder as she walked away.

Foggy sighed wearily as he watched her leave.

  
Karen stood on a Chinatown sidewalk, looking up at a nondescript, six-story building. The sign over the door read, “Chikara Dojo.” Not exactly a billionaire’s pad, she thought, but apparently this was the place. She pushed open the front door and went inside. Following a sign that directed her to the second floor, she climbed the stairs and emerged into a hallway. As she took a step toward the closed door to a room across the hall, a slender, dark-haired woman appeared at the far end. Karen recognized her from the precinct. Colleen. 

“Hey, Karen. This way,” Colleen said, tilting her head to her left.

“Hey,” Karen replied, and followed her to a living room-kitchen area.

“Danny’s meditating in the dojo,” Colleen explained. “It’s not a good idea to startle him.”

“Sorry. Did I come at a bad time?”

“No,” Colleen said, “I’ll get him in a minute.” She went into the kitchen and held up a teapot. “I was just making tea. Want some?”

“Sure.”

“You got it. Please, have a seat. I’ll be right out.”

Karen took a seat at one end of the couch and watched as Colleen busied herself in the kitchen. Within a couple of minutes, she walked toward Karen, carrying two mugs, and set them down on the coffee table before taking a seat at the far end of the couch. She turned to face Karen and said, “I’m so sorry, you know, about Matt Murdock.”

“Thank you.”

“We didn’t know him, not really, not like you did. I mean, it was only a few days. But it hit Danny pretty hard, losing him like that.”

Karen took a sip of her tea – lemon grass, she thought – but didn’t respond. After a moment, Colleen continued, “I can’t imagine, I mean, you and Matt were together, right?”

Karen raised her head. “What?” she asked sharply. Before Colleen could answer, she went on, “No. We’re just friends.”

The look on Colleen’s face said she wasn’t entirely convinced, but she merely said, “Oh. Sorry. I thought, um, you know, because you were at the precinct – ”

“No problem,” Karen said, waving her hand.

“I’ll get Danny now,” Colleen said as she stood up. “He’s had more than enough time to center himself,” she added with a wry smile. 

Karen stood up when she saw Colleen returning with Danny. She wasn’t sure what “centered” looked like, but he wasn’t the weary, bloodied man she’d met at the Harlem police station the night Midland Circle fell. He rushed toward her and enveloped her in a hug, saying, “I’m so sorry, Karen. I still can’t believe it.”

“I know,” she murmured as she stepped back, forcing Danny to release her from the hug. She resumed her seat on the couch, as did Colleen. Danny sat in a chair across from them.

“So – how can we help you?” Danny asked.

Karen took a sip of her now-cool tea before answering. She set her cup down and said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard about them, but there have been some, uh, unusual events in Hell’s Kitchen recently. I think they’re connected to Midland Circle or, more specifically, what the Hand was doing there. I’m hoping you can tell me about that.”

“‘Unusual events’? Like what?”

“People surviving fatal injuries and terminal illnesses,” Karen told him. “And not just surviving, recovering – and recovering completely, as if they were never injured or ill.”

Danny gave her a long, searching look, as if he was trying to decide how much to tell her, how much she could handle. Karen was sick of being on the receiving end of looks like that. Now she understood why Matt hated it when people treated him as if he was made of glass. Danny finally took a deep breath and said, “You know about Elektra?”

Karen nodded. “The Hand killed her, then brought her back.”

“Right. But Elektra wasn’t the only one. The members of the Hand – the five leaders and maybe others, I don’t know – used the same method to return from death, over and over.”

“How?” Karen asked.

Danny frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know, exactly, but Madame Gao – she was one of them – said the secret to eternal life was there, under Midland Circle. In the dragon bones. They were the last remaining source of ‘the substance,’ as she called it.”

“Luke said they were cutting up the bones and getting ready to take them out of there.”

“They were,” Danny agreed. “They seemed, well, desperate, to get their hands on this ‘substance.’ Desperate enough to bring down part of the city in the process.”

“Jesus,” Karen breathed, shaking her head. She thought for a minute. It all added up. “If this ‘substance’ does what you say it does – ”

Danny leaned forward eagerly, his eyes bright, and interrupted her, “Matt could’ve survived. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. I mean, why not?” 

Colleen spoke up. “But even if he survived, how did he get out of there?”

“She’s right,” Danny agreed. “Matt said the elevator was the only way out.”

Karen held out her hands. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe the blast opened up another way.”

“I suppose it could’ve,” Danny mused. “But Matt had no intention of getting out of there alive.”

Karen stared at him in horror. “What do you mean?”

“The last thing he said to me, before we left, was ‘Protect my city.’ I think he knew the timer on the bombs was already counting down.”

_“What?”_

“He must have heard it.”

Karen considered this. It seemed like a stretch, even for Matt’s senses, but even now she didn’t fully understand their reach. “It’s possible, I guess,” she said.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” Danny told her. “The plan was to start the timer after we were all above ground, but it started while we were still down below.”

“It was my fault,” Colleen said softly. Both Danny and Karen turned to look at her. “Bakuto showed up after we placed the C4 and set the timer.”

“Bakuto?” Karen asked.

“He was – ” Colleen began, then stopped when Danny gave her a warning look. “He was one of the Hand, one of the five. We fought, and I killed him, but when I did, his body fell on the timer and started it. It was an accident. I’m so, so sorry.” She began to sob. Danny went to her and took her in his arms. He held her until she cried herself out.

When Colleen finally raised her head and brushed the remaining tears from her cheeks, Karen addressed her. “You have nothing to apologize for. This . . . Bakuto, he was one of the Hand. They had to be stopped. Whatever happened to Matt, it was _not_ your fault. He chose to stay behind. That’s on him.” She picked up her handbag and stood up. “I should be going. Thank you for speaking with me.” She turned and walked away.

  
On her way home from work that evening, Karen stopped by Matt’s apartment, as she had been doing a few times a week since his disappearance. When she reached the sixth-floor landing, she tapped on the door, then, hearing nothing, took out her key and opened the door. On her first visit, she had sweet-talked the super into letting her in. Using an old business card that identified her as the office manager for Nelson & Murdock, she spun a tale about keeping an eye on the place, after Matt was called out of town suddenly for a “family emergency” and left without giving her the keys. The super bought it. Or maybe he just liked the tip she gave him. Once inside, she found a set of keys in one of the desk drawers. She took them with her when she left.

There was the usual pile of mail on the floor just inside the door. Karen picked it up and carried it into the living room. There she sat on the couch, separating the bills from the other mail. Then she decided which bills had to be paid immediately and which could wait until her next paycheck. A reporter’s salary only went so far, after all. She tucked the “pay now” stack into her handbag, and leaned back with a sigh. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep doing this. Long enough, she hoped. She still had most of the payout she’d received for signing the Union Allied NDA and could tap into that money if she had to. Matt would pay her back if he returned. No, _when_ he returned. 

That task completed, she got to her feet and did a survey of the apartment. Nothing had been disturbed since her last visit. There was no sign that Matt, or anyone else, had been there. The cold, still air had a musty odor that said no one had been home for quite a while. She expected nothing different. During her first few visits, she’d felt a sense of Matt’s presence, but it had faded. Now the place felt empty, abandoned. She hoped that didn’t mean what she feared it meant.

Instead of leaving after finishing her survey, she returned to the couch and sat down. She needed time to process what she had learned from Danny and Colleen earlier in the day. This was as good a place as any to do that. She was now certain that the “substance” from the dragon bones was the reason why Zoe and Leon had survived and recovered. If they had survived, Matt could have, too. Her heart beat faster as she considered the possibility. Yes, there was still the question of how he could have gotten out from under the rubble. Then she remembered something Foggy had told her, about the network of tunnels underneath the city. What if the explosion had opened up a hole in the wall of one of them? Surely that was possible. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate: that Matt had somehow survived but was trapped under tons of debris, unable to escape. 

And what about Elektra? If Matt had survived, she might have, too. Karen wasn’t sure what their relationship was, exactly, but whatever it was, Elektra was important to him. Important enough that he stayed behind because of her, knowing the building was going to come down. If they both got out, they probably were long gone – together. With Elektra’s money – or the Hand’s – they could be anywhere by now. She felt a stab of something in her gut. She told herself it wasn’t jealousy. If Matt was alive, and with Elektra, maybe he was happy – as happy as Matt Murdock could be, anyway. If she cared for Matt, and she did, she had to be OK with that. Then another possibility occurred to her: what if only Matt survived? Karen didn’t want to think about what losing Elektra for a second time would do to him. She only knew it would be bad.

She now knew, finally, what had happened underneath Midland Circle, but that knowledge gave her no peace. The timer on the explosives was started by accident, but Matt staying behind was no accident. He chose to stay, knowing the building was coming down, knowing that meant almost certain death. What had brought him to that point, that he would choose death over life? She didn’t think she had any tears left for Matt, but she wept now at the thought of the desperation that must have driven his choice.

Whatever had happened to Matt, he wouldn’t come out of it unscathed, if he had survived. She didn’t know where that left her. After all, it wasn’t as if she even knew anymore what she wanted from him. After he revealed that he was Daredevil, she thought she finally knew who he was. Now she wasn’t so sure. She sure as hell didn’t know the man who stood before her at the precinct that night and declared, “This _is_ my life.” But that didn’t change the fact that there was a hole in her life, where her friend Matt Murdock used to be. It didn’t make sense, she thought, that she felt his absence so keenly. He hadn’t been a part of her life for months. It didn’t matter. She missed him. She wanted her friend back. She wanted to see him smile when he heard the sound of her voice. She wanted to have drinks and shoot pool with him at Josie’s. She wanted to talk to him; no, she _needed_ to talk to him. What he said to her at the precinct that night couldn’t be his last words to her. There were too many things left unsaid between them, too many secrets and lies, some of them hers. She promised herself she would make that right. She only hoped she got the chance.

Presently, she found a tissue in her handbag and used it to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Then she stood up and buttoned her coat. There was nothing more for her to do here. But today had been a good day. She’d gotten answers, a lot of them. They all pointed in the same direction: deep below Midland Circle, there was a powerful substance, capable of healing terrible injuries and diseases and even bringing back the dead. That substance could have allowed Matt to survive whatever happened to him there. Her hope renewed, Karen left the apartment and headed home. She still had to wait for the report from the lab, but she could start writing her story in the morning. 

  
The next morning, she woke up to a “feel-good” story on the _Bulletin’s_ web site, but for her, it wasn’t merely a human interest story. It was another piece in the puzzle.

 **MIDLAND CIRCLE WORKER MAKES MIRACULOUS RECOVERY**  
Special Report to the _Bulletin_  
By T. J. Mason

Leonardo DiGenova, 43, a heavy equipment operator at the Midland Circle site in Hell’s Kitchen, was discharged from Metro-General Medical Center yesterday, five days after suffering “life-threatening” injuries on the job. DiGenova was rushed to the hospital after the front loader he was operating tipped onto its side, and he was thrown to the ground and crushed beneath the machine. He sustained massive internal injuries and was not expected to survive.

After being authorized by DiGenova to speak to the press, his trauma surgeon, Ricardo Brooks, M.D., stated his patient’s recovery and the speed of his recovery were “extraordinary.” Pressed for an explanation, Dr. Brooks admitted there was no medical explanation, pointing out that the human body is a complex organism, and medical science does not yet have answers in cases such as this. Mr. DiGenova himself called his survival and recovery “miraculous.” He plans to return to work at the Midland Circle site as soon as he is medically released to do so. According to a spokesperson for DiGenova’s employer, Westmeyer Holt Contracting, an investigation into the cause of the accident is ongoing. ###

  
Ten days later, an email from the lab finally appeared in Karen’s inbox – her personal inbox, not the one on the _Bulletin’s_ mail server. The report on her samples was attached. She opened the document and scanned it. Most of the results were what you’d expect: microscopic shards of metal, plastic, wood, and glass, drywall dust, ash, minute paint chips, traces of insulation, tiny shreds of paper, desiccated bits of the potted plants that had decorated the offices, and other materials. No asbestos, fortunately; the building was too new for that. No traces of human remains, thank God. But it was the last entry that caught her eye: the single word, “unknown,” followed by a highly technical discussion of amino acids and polypeptide chains and the analyst’s conclusion: “unknown organic compounds.” 

“Bingo!” she thought. This was the final piece. She now had all she needed. She opened the draft of her article and went to work. 

  
Later that day, she marched into her editor’s office.

“What’ve you got?” Ellison asked, looking up from his computer screen.

“You remember the story we ran last week, about the miraculous recovery of the construction worker at Midland Circle?”

Ellison nodded. “Yeah. So?”

“It’s not the only case like that,” Karen told him.

That got Ellison’s attention. “Tell me,” he said, waving his hand.

“There are three other cases that I know of, two of them confirmed. One of them is a young woman who was run over by a car. Her doctors said her injuries were not survivable. She walked out of the hospital five days later. The other is a man with advanced prostate cancer who went home to die. Two weeks later, he was cancer-free.”

“OK. What do the doctors say?”

“The same thing the construction worker’s doctor said: there’s no explanation, things like this just happen sometimes.”

Ellison pursed his lips, thinking. “But you have an explanation, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Karen replied eagerly. “The common denominator, the thing that ties all the cases together, is Midland Circle. All of the cases are within a block of the site, in the area that’s still covered with dust from the collapse and the ongoing work there.”

“How does that explain what happened?”

“I think there’s something in the dust.” Karen shuffled through the papers in her hand, until she found the page she was looking for. “I got some samples of the dust and had them analyzed. Look at the result listed at the bottom,” she said, holding the paper out to Ellison. “It says ‘unknown organic compounds.’ I think that’s the answer.”

Ellison gave her a skeptical look but took the report and glanced at it. Then he shrugged. “So we’ve got some unknown . . . stuff in the dust. That still doesn’t explain what happened.”

“I think it has healing properties,” Karen said.

“Based on what?” Ellison demanded. 

“I, uh, haven’t, um, pinned down that part of it yet.” There was no way she was going to tell her editor about the dragon bones, not if she wanted to keep her job.

“So, what, you want us to publish a story about people being healed by some kind of magic dust?” Ellison asked, shaking his head in disbelief. “You gotta be kidding me.” He sighed wearily, then continued. “Look, you’ve done good work on Midland Circle. I’ve said so myself. But this – ” He gestured with the hand holding the report. “This is . . . something else. Do I have to remind you that you work for the _New York Bulletin_ , not some supermarket tabloid?”

“No,” Karen replied, pressing her lips together in a thin line.

“Then don’t bring me crap like this,” Ellison ordered her, thrusting the lab report back into her hand.

It was a dismissal. Karen returned to her office, where she sat behind her desk, fuming. Her anger was directed mostly at herself. She was an idiot for pitching the story the way she did. She should have presented it as strictly a human interest story, like the one about the construction worker. There were other cases out there, she was sure of it. To find them, she needed to get the story published. She wasn’t going to give up. Maybe the third person Father Lantom mentioned would speak to her, if the priest encouraged them. She needed to talk to him again, emphasizing the importance of the story. And maybe get an answer to the question that had been eating at her since their conversation: did he know something he wasn’t telling her – about Matt?

She never had a chance to get an answer to that question. The next day, Ellison pulled her off her other Midland Circle story, the one about respiratory illnesses in the neighborhood, and assigned her to the attempted kidnapping of real estate developer Rostam Kazemi. The attempt was foiled by a man in a black mask, who showed up “out of nowhere,” according to Kazemi’s daughter Neda. Karen’s heart skipped a beat when she heard Neda’s description of their rescuer. It had to be Matt. Didn’t it? When she tracked down Foggy at Nelson's Meats and told him about it, he was skeptical, pointing out that Hell’s Kitchen was “ground zero” for vigilantes. After he insisted that Matt was dead, she stomped out of the store. Foggy could believe what he wanted. She wasn’t giving up, not without proof.

Then something happened that changed everything: the FBI released Wilson Fisk from prison. Overnight, her priorities shifted; she still cared about Midland Circle and what happened to Matt, but stopping Fisk came first. Ellison had other ideas. He didn’t want her anywhere near Fisk. He ordered her not to work the story, and she reluctantly returned to her investigation of the kidnapping attempt. Following the paper trail, she learned Kazemi was the former owner of the Presidential Hotel, where Fisk was being held under house arrest. Pulling that thread led to evidence that a shell corporation, possibly controlled by Fisk, owned the hotel. She was still chasing down leads to prove that connection when Foggy showed up at her office. 

As she was excitedly telling Foggy about what she’d found out, he interrupted her, holding out his hands to stop the words that were spilling out of her. Then he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to emphasize his words, “I didn’t come to talk about Fisk.”

Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. She felt the blood drain from her face. “What? It’s Matt?” she asked. She dropped the pen she was holding and covered her mouth with her hands. She moved her hands aside to ask, “They found a body?” before raising her hands to her face again.

Foggy didn’t answer her directly. Instead, he said, “I promised I would never lie for Matt again. Not to you.”

Wait, what? Clenching her fists, she gave him a questioning look, then said, “No, you have to just . . .” She took a deep breath, then continued, “You need to just tell me.” Then she realized Foggy had already told her. “Matt’s alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then the rest of season 3 happened. The original plan was to end the story when Karen finds out Matt's alive, but it felt incomplete. So there will be another chapter, a short coda, you might say. It takes place several weeks after the end of season 3 and features a special appearance by Sister Maggie.


	4. Later

Weeks passed. Wilson Fisk was again in custody, where he belonged. Nelson, Murdock, and Page were working together again, in a makeshift office above Nelson’s Meats. Slowly, tentatively, they were beginning to rebuild their partnership – and their friendship. On the surface, things seemed fine. Karen knew better. There were very few nights when she didn’t wake up, her heart pounding, after reliving the attacks on the _Bulletin_ and the church in her dreams. Even her waking hours were sometimes interrupted by flashbacks. They didn’t speak of it, but she suspected Foggy was experiencing the same things. The bags under his eyes and the haunted expression that sometimes crossed his face told her what was going on with him. 

As for Matt, who knew? He showed up for work every day and even charmed a few new clients (of the female persuasion) into retaining the firm. Karen wasn’t buying it. She’d seen his “I’m fine” act too many times, and now he was doing it again. He deflected all of her attempts to talk about what happened to him, withdrawing into himself whenever she got anywhere near the subject. And he still hadn’t explained why he let her and Foggy think he was dead. That was the hardest thing to understand, and to forgive.

Daredevil came back only a few days after Father Lantom’s funeral. She and Foggy tried their best to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t budge. He insisted the people of Hell’s Kitchen needed to know that the real Daredevil was back, and he wasn’t a killer. He got some unexpected support from the NYPD, when they confirmed to the media that the perpetrator of the attacks on the _Bulletin_ and the church was an imposter, and he was now in custody. Karen was pretty sure Brett Mahoney was behind the story. Foggy agreed. One day when Matt was in court, they discussed whether Brett knew Matt was Daredevil, but short of asking Brett, there was no way to know for sure.

Now that Fisk was put away, Karen had other, unfinished business: her investigation into the “miracles” that had happened near Midland Circle. There would never be a story in the _Bulletin_ , but after learning that Matt was alive, she wanted answers, more than ever. She knew where she might get some.

  
Karen found Sister Maggie in her office at the orphanage. It was mid-morning; the youngest children were at the day care, and the older children were in school. The nun was using the time to tackle the mountain of paperwork that inevitably came with caring for children who were wards of the State of New York. She looked up from her computer screen when Karen tapped on the frame of her open office door.

“Karen,” she said with a smile, “come in, please.”

Karen took a seat across the desk from Maggie.

“How are you doing?” Maggie asked gently. Then she waved her hand. “Stupid question,” she said briskly. “You don’t have to answer.”

“No, it’s all right,” Karen said. “OK, I guess.” She shrugged.

Maggie gave her a doubtful look but simply asked, “How can I help you?”

Karen shifted in her chair and cleared her throat. “When Matt was here, recovering, was there anything, um, unusual about his recovery?”

“You mean, aside from the fact that he was alive in the first place?” Maggie asked tartly. Then she added, more gently, “Even Father Lantom thought it was a miracle that he survived.”

Karen looked down, unable to meet Maggie’s eyes. She tried to ignore the now-familiar constriction in her chest at the mention of Father Lantom’s name. She knew what it was: grief, amplified by guilt.

When she didn’t respond, Maggie asked, “What’s this about, Karen?”

Karen finally looked up. “Do you remember the ‘miracle’ recoveries that were happening in Hell’s Kitchen, in the weeks after Midland Circle collapsed?”

“Yes, of course. Several of the cases were our parishioners.”

“That’s right,” Karen agreed, “and there was also the worker at the site who was crushed under a piece of heavy equipment and survived. We covered his case in the _Bulletin_. The doctors who treated these people were mystified. There was no medical explanation for why they survived and recovered.”

“I remember the article.” Maggie clasped her hands together in front of her face, then asked, “And your point is?”

Karen didn’t answer her directly. Instead, she asked, “Did Matt ever talk to you about what he was doing at Midland Circle that night?”

Maggie looked surprised at the change of subject but shook her head. “No.”

“There was an ancient organization, I’m not sure what you’d call it, it was a combination of a cult and a criminal organization, that owned the building. But they weren’t interested in the building; it was what was below it. They dug deep below the building and were taking something out of there, something they needed.”

“What was it?”

“I’m not sure,” Karen told her, skirting the truth, “but I think it had healing properties.”

Maggie leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed, thinking. Karen could almost see her putting the pieces together. Finally, she opened her eyes and said, “You think this something from below Midland Circle is why Matthew and the others survived. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

Maggie shook her head slowly. “Honestly, I don’t know. Matthew was pretty banged up when Paul brought him to us – mainly his hip and his spine. And he was badly concussed, drifted in and out of consciousness for several weeks. But now that I think about it, I have to wonder. As bad as his injuries were, I would’ve expected much worse, given what happened to him. At the time, I thought his devil suit must have protected him. But maybe there is something to your theory. As I said, I don’t know.”

“Did he recover more quickly than you expected?”

“Maybe.” Maggie paused for a minute and thought, pressing her lips together. “I really can’t say. I don’t have much experience with injuries like Matthew’s. It’s possible, I suppose. But to be honest, I was more worried about his spiritual recovery.”

Karen looked a question at the nun. She explained, “When Matthew finally woke up, he was blind, truly blind.”

A knot formed in Karen’s stomach. “What do you mean?”

“He was deaf in his right ear, and his senses of taste and smell were mostly gone. Without them, he couldn’t do the things he used to do, or even navigate the world in the way he was accustomed to. It would have been like losing his sight, all over again. It must have been terrifying.”

“Oh, my God,” Karen breathed.

“He didn’t tell you?” Maggie asked.

“Not a word.”

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t,” Maggie said thoughtfully. Then she continued, “He didn’t know if his senses were ever coming back. He felt as if he’d lost everything: you and Mr. Nelson, Elektra, his senses, his abilities, Daredevil. He no longer believed he was doing God’s work as Daredevil. And if he couldn’t be Daredevil, he didn’t want to live as Matt Murdock.”

“Oh, Matt,” Karen whispered. Her heart ached for him. She couldn’t hold back her tears. Silently, Maggie pushed a box of tissues across the desk to her and watched as she dried her eyes. Then she said, “Foggy said he was changed, like he left a part of himself behind, under Midland Circle.”

Maggie nodded gravely. “That’s one way of looking at it,” she said.

“But he came back.”

“Yes, he did. Gradually, his hearing and his other senses returned. He regained his strength. When that mobster, Fisk, was released from prison, that seemed to give him a sense of purpose. And, well, you know what happened after that.”

“Most of it,” Karen agreed. She was reaching for her handbag, thinking it was time to go, when something else occurred to her. “Why didn’t you contact us, Foggy and me?”

“Matthew said there was no one I could call for him. I took him at his word.”

“But Father Lantom had met both of us. He knew we were Matt’s friends.”

“I can’t speak for Paul,” Maggie said, “but I think Matthew told him there had been a . . . a falling-out.”

“You’re right, there was,” Karen admitted, “but that wouldn’t have made a difference. We would never have turned our backs on him. Not when he needed us.”

“I’m sure that’s true. Matthew told me he had friends, but he was letting them – letting you – think he was gone. He said it was because he _was_ gone.” Maggie shook her head sadly, remembering. “Matthew had lost his way. He wasn’t thinking clearly.” She paused for a moment, then continued, “Paul and I didn’t have that excuse. We knew Matthew was struggling. You’re right, we should have contacted you and Mr. Nelson. I hope you can forgive us.” She smiled wryly. “I seem to be doing a lot of that these days – asking for forgiveness, that is.”

Karen shook her head. “There is nothing to forgive. You and Father Lantom – ” There was a catch in her voice when she said his name. “You saved Matt’s life.” She picked up her handbag and stood up. “I should be going,” she said. “Thank you for telling me about Matt, what was happening with him while he was . . . gone. It explains . . . a lot.”

When Karen was halfway to the door, Maggie spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. “It wasn’t us,” she said. “There is a reason Matthew was spared.” Karen stopped and turned toward Maggie with a questioning look on her face. 

“God wasn’t finished with Matthew,” Maggie said. “There is still work for him to do here – God’s work. That’s why he survived.”


End file.
